Like It's Your Last
by moss28
Summary: They only have so much time before things inevitably go wrong. Might as well make it count.


He stretches languidly, thoroughly relishing in the fact that he's able to do so. The pit cells were incredibly cramped, and trying to relax required some creative acts of contortion. He's free, now, to sprawl on his back and take up as much space as he can.

From somewhere beside him comes a rumbling purr of a laugh.

Ram angles his head to look at one of his companions. Having apparently missed the memo about being able to take it easy for once, Tron is standing as rigidly and alertly as ever, his arms folded across his chest as he scans the immediate area. He's tensed and poised in preparation for trouble. But when his gaze sweeps across Ram, it settles there for a just a moment, and an affectionate smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

 _[Enjoying yourself?]_

The altogether mundane ping leaves Ram grinning. Prisoners of the MCP were denied the means of direct subvocal communication, and it had been an unpleasant hindrance, to say the least. There was a distinct hole in most every interaction, a gap that couldn't be bridged without that simple line of connection. It was such a basic thing, the type of comfort you _could_ live without but wouldn't want to. The moment their light cycles had passed the barrier of the arena, he'd sent a flurry of rapid-fire statements to Tron without entirely meaning to. Half of the messages were nonsensical tests to see if they could manage pings again, and after an initial request to tone it down, the pair had kept up a steady stream of silent data exchange throughout the rest of the harrowing journey. Tron must have missed the ability, too.

 _[Yeah. You should try it sometime.]_ Ram counters. Even Flynn, as odd and uncertain as he is, is currently resting a small distance away. He'd gone into sleep mode after sating himself at the energy spring, something Ram couldn't exactly blame him for. The first few rotations through the Game Grid were often the most difficult, and Flynn's disorientation must have only worsened matters. Ram hadn't seen the guy power down at all since his arrival.

Tron doesn't indicate whether or not he received the message, so Ram closes his eyes and settles into the stillness. A few nanos later, there's the sound of feet moving over the craggy ground, and he doesn't have to look to know that Tron is easing himself into a seated position at last. He props himself up anyway, though, and fixes Tron with a questioning stare.

 _[Better?]_

 _[A little. Although I could think of a few... improvements.]_

And he smirks in a way that's clearly an invitation, even without explicit instructions. Ram shuffles over towards him, and when he's close enough, Tron reaches out and pulls him by the arm. Whether it's by his own volition or Tron's will, he finds himself straddling the taller program's lap, their faces separated by only a small distance. The sudden proximity takes him by surprise.

""Improvements," huh?" He's starting to run a bit warm, and it causes him to slip back to verbal communication. Not to mention the fact that Tron's light touch is skating across Ram's thigh, which is also _highly_ distracting.

Tron hums in agreement, his eyes trained on Ram's face to take in the smaller program's reaction. His expression becomes decidedly more pleased when Ram bites back a gasp, his shoulders curling forward as Tron slowly works a hand up towards his abdomen. He takes hold of Tron's shoulders to steady himself, the mere thought of what's happening enough to make his systems stutter uselessly.

Heated comments had passed across the energy field between their cells, hushed remarks that he'd assumed to be the products of frustration and desperation. Isolation did funny things to programs, after all. Ram's circuits would flush and he'd laugh it off like it was nothing, even though he couldn't ignore the notion that maybe Tron wanted that level of connection, too. But there was no point in entertaining those far-fetched ideas when there were too many factors that skewed them towards flat-out impossibilities.

Yet the current situation implies that there might have been more weight behind them than he'd previously thought.

 _[You're sure about this?]_ Because he isn't planning on carrying around any additional regrets on top of what he's already dealing with, and he wants to make sure that Tron is on the same page. An answer comes back so quickly it's almost alarming in its urgency.

 _[Yes. Now. Please.]_

It sounds like a more than solid confirmation, and it's backed up by the way Tron somehow manages to pull the actuary even closer. It's the exact reassurance that Ram needs.

Quick, quiet caresses, nervous and fluttering against already flushed circuits. Neither is sure where to put their hands, and Ram is struggling not to put his everywhere at once. They'd spent too long in those cells, the lines of tally marks the only real reminder of time's passage. Microcycle upon microcycle had passed with no direct contact, no link to the system, no energy flow besides the rations they were provided with. The separation battered at already weary spirits, and it was no surprise that so many conscripts simply gave up.

Even with the unspoken fear of imminent misfortune, they now have to opportunity to truly, _finally_ , connect.

He doesn't have to guess anymore, doesn't have to wonder about the ebbs and flows of the monitor's energy and the way it would feel tangled up with his own code. It's there - _Tron's_ there - warm and electric under his palms. Data trickles back and forth between them, everything they had wanted to share but couldn't express in simple words alone. They've barely begun, hardly scratched the surface of what this newfound freedom means, yet Ram is already closer to Tron than he's ever been before.

Tron slips a hand under the chestplate of Ram's armor. Uncertain fingers gain confidence in their exploration as they run across clusters of circuits and leave blushed purple trails in their wake. He shivers at the half-forgotten sensation of it and curses the armor for dulling the feeling even slightly.

 _[Wish I could take some of this off.]_

 _[Don't]_ is the simple reply, firm and commanding even as Tron nuzzles into the crook of his neck. _[It's still too dangerous.]_

The threat of the Games clings to them, adds a note of desperation to their movements. It isn't over yet, they aren't truly free. Any moment could throw some new danger into their lives.

Any moment could be their last.

Calculations run without much conscious input, spitting facts and figures despite the external stimuli. Their chances don't look very good. Too many things could still go wrong, and he isn't naive enough to believe that they won't. Each variable slims their survival chances until Ram is left with depressing statistics that only get bleaker with the more possibilities he accounts for. Tron must sense the uptick in his processing, and he sighs into Ram's shoulder.

 _[We've made it this far.]_

Funny, how optimistic the phrase sounds now. A slight change of tone and suddenly Tron is the one offering reassurances while Ram churns with worry. And he's right, in a way, because the future is never certain.

 _[Should we go a little farther?]_ Ram pings teasingly, trying his best to ignore the data and enjoying the subvocal exchange too much to return to spoken words. He presses Tron against the ground while the monitor laughs. The present is a little surer, a little more concrete. What is holds more relevance than what will be, and while they have that much, while they have _now_ , everything else can be pushed to the side.

 _[Don't look so pleased with yourself.]_ Tron admonishes with a grin. Ram can't help it, really. He's spent too much time thinking about the cycle that would see their release from the Games, and what might come of it.

He settles between Tron's outstretched legs, leans over and against him, and draws in a sharp gasp when their forms align. The power hits him in a rush, Tron's stronger signature all but overwhelming his own. He lays his head on the other program's chest as his systems work to compensate for the differential. A faint sound escapes him when Tron starts rubbing circles on the small of his back, concern plain in his unspoken words.

 _[Are you-]_

"I'm... fine," Ram mumbles. "Fine, really."

 _[How much of that stuff did you drink, anyway?]_ he adds as he shifts carefully, and the motion sends a jolt of pleasure through him. Tron just laughs breathlessly and massages the back of Ram's neck with his free hand.

Experimentally, Ram moves again, this time with the intent of drawing as much stimulation from it as he can. Energy passes between them, and it carries with it the essences of their code, of their lives. A thousand cycles as cell neighbors could never have brought them together like this, because a thousand conversations could never amount to sharing the bond of an interface.

 _[How's that?]_ Ram asks, tentative and uncertain.

 _[Good. Wonderful.]_ A beat of hesitation before Tron slides his hands down to Ram's waist. _[More.]_

He obliges.

A slow grind, a thoughtful and calculated maneuvering of his body that makes Tron's head fall back and draws a groan from his lips. He repeats it once, then twice, and takes it a little faster on the third go around. Tron swears through gritted teeth, digs his fingers into cyan strips of light that quickly turn to warmer shades.

He's acutely aware of the subtlest of Tron's responses, prepared to stop at any indication of displeasure. He sends another query anyway and waits until he receives a Bit-like series of _[Yes]_ es before he continues. Additional encouragement comes from the way Tron rocks beneath him, silently pleading for _more more more_.

 _[Impatient, much?]_ Even though he's just as needy. Thoughts of deresolution and danger are still fresh in his processors, and suddenly he can't bear to wait. The tempo of their movements builds until they're sighing each other's names and pinging prayers to their Users.

Circuits slip across circuits in a dizzying, sparking array of violets and purples. Tron is holding him tightly, one hand clinging to Ram's hip while the other scores blazing lines down his back. Teeth graze paths of light while Ram shifts and rubs and works his fingers over the patterns on Tron's sides. He wants - _needs_ \- to explore every inch of Tron that he can, every last pixel, to ensure that no part of him goes untouched. It's a hot heavy _burning_ that goes straight to the core of his code, and the only thing that matters is the press of their bodies and the way that it makes him feel whole.

Mirroring that unfiltered desire, Tron hooks his leg around Ram's waist, bringing them closer together and allowing for more sensitive nodes to be better exposed. Torsos and hips and thighs and everything in between meet seamlessly, and Ram practically sees stars. The armor of the Games hardly matters now, and it does little to dampen the static-laced friction buzzing between them. He gasps into the skin of Tron's throat, the vibrations of his partner's low moan only adding more heat to his systems.

"Just like that," Tron groans and bucks. "Perfect, you're perfect, _Users_ -"

The words are lost in the moment, though fragments of other praises come through in garbled pings. Ram is practically stuck in a loop, reciting _[Tron, Tron, Tron]_ over and over. He continues grinding desperately against the other program in an attempt to establish as many points of contact as he can. Their steady rhythm, the matched pace of two bodies in tandem, is beginning to falter. Energy sizzles in every piece of his shell, aching for release. He sets his mouth along the circuits lining Tron's collarbone, each gentle nip eliciting another sound from the monitor.

The continuous thrum of energy, Tron's breathy murmurs and whispered affections; it's an intoxicating cocktail, a building pressure beneath his skin. He can sense it in Tron, too, the same heady mixture looking for an outlet. Suddenly, Tron tenses beneath him, his back arching and breath hitching as the buildup of energy finally overwhelms his systems. Circuits flare almost white in their intensity, and Ram gives a final, faltering thrust of his hips before it's too much for him, too.

He slumps against Tron with a whimper, the excess energy from the spring the only thing that keeps him from shutting down completely. The taller program stirs after a moment, and with only a half-hearted _[No]_ , Ram allows him to move. A moment later, Tron is sitting up and leaning on a chunk of pixel-rock with Ram reclining lazily beside him, their arms and legs just barely brushing. An amicable silence falls between them, but Tron is the first to break it.

"When this is all over, and we're back where we're meant to be..."

He trails off, and Ram can't find it himself to finish the phrase on a positive note. Where is he _meant_ to be? Could he go back to the insurance company, pretend like all of this was behind him? For as much as he'd loved his function, a return to number crunching and data running seems almost laughably absurd after everything he's been through. Then again, it wasn't like he'd have options. Tron would most likely stay on the Encom server, Ram would pick up his original purpose, and they'd never see each other again. And that was assuming they even made it through the trials ahead.

It's possible that their proximity accounts for the way Tron responds, as though he knows of Ram's dismal contemplations. The near-constant exchange of data makes it difficult to keep secrets. He runs his thumb along the curve of Ram's disc and traces a smooth, soothing line along the edge of it.

Or maybe he harbors the same doubts.

 _[At least we have this.]_

Ram sighs, but makes no other indication of his opinion. Best not to spoil the moment. Tron wraps the smaller program in a tight embrace that's protective and reassuring, but isn't enough to make reality any less troubling. As he settles back into the arms of his friend, Ram finds himself wishing that _this_ would be enough.


End file.
